


Widojest through Winter’s Crest (or two lives, through a fistful of Festivals)

by EyeLoch



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: (though not body horror with living people), F/M, Happy Ending, hopefully this falls under PG-13, mild body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:14:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21872785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EyeLoch/pseuds/EyeLoch
Summary: Yearly festivals provide an interesting way to see how dynamics can change over time.  Now, Winter's Crest might not be celebrated in the Dwendallian Empire, but that doesn't mean that it isn't important for either Caleb or Jester.(This story is a Secret Santa fill for Bones (@angerykiri on Twitter) as part of a Widojest server Secret Santa event.)
Relationships: Jester Lavorre/Caleb Widogast
Comments: 3
Kudos: 37





	Widojest through Winter’s Crest (or two lives, through a fistful of Festivals)

**Author's Note:**

> As I said in the summary, this story was written as a Secret Santa fill for Bones, who does some amazing art you should all check out.
> 
> I hope any potential readers enjoy this, but her most of all.

**Null**

_Winter’s Crest, Winter’s Wane,  
In feeble sun or freezing rain,  
We celebrate – the worst has passed – and Spring shall come again._

When you’ve never had a lot, the little touches always seem huge. Bren Aldric Ermendrud might have always known this – at least subconsciously. No one had a lot in Blumenthal, but the Ermendrud family had less. 

_“It’s a good thing I didn’t soldier for the money,” Pater said to Mutter, Bren half-awake as the lantern sputtered into the long cold night, “otherwise I’d be angry **and** poor.” _

_They laughed. Bren smiled. He slipped back into sleep before he caught the bitter tinge._

Some days, back before. . .well, back before. Some of those days, Bren resented other kids’ tin soldiers – he had to make do with his dad’s whittled ones. Days like that, he’d try and talk them into trades and deals, beg and barter into getting what he wanted. He didn’t often succeed. 

Days like those sent him scurrying even quicker than usual to Astrid’s house – she could talk circles around him – ‘round anyone, really. Edowulf would come by too, often with a few scraps of borrowed writings, “that were arcane formulae, no really”.

But Winter’s Crest was a day apart from all that. Being loyal Empire citizens, they’d never celebrate it. But somehow, on that shortest day of the year, the fire burnt brightest, and Pater’s toys of husks and twigs were better than soldiers made from wrought gold. They’d sit together by the bright hearth, talking and talking until the fire burnt so low they couldn’t find their beds without stubbing some toes! 

~~Caleb Widogast cannot help but remember the brightest fire in that house, however. He still feels the heat from _those_ final embers.~~

* * *

When you’ve never had a lot, the little touches always seem huge. Jester Lavorre both did and didn’t know this, growing up as she did. Gifts and presents were her mama’s world – people gave her anything and everything to win her time and her heart. Naturally, plenty of these were traded, bargained, regifted – the Ruby’s heart was for her little sapphire, after all. And the Lavish Chatue was always aglow, so you’d never really notice which nights were the longest, no matter how many “halfway out of the dark” songs Mama might sing.

But that didn’t mean Winter’s Crest wasn’t special. Oh no, not at all. See, people tend to spend time with family on festival days – or at least with “more respectable company”. (No one commanded more respect than the Ruby of the Sea, so Jester always they were talking nonsense.) Now, the Dwendallian Empire didn’t celebrate Winter’s Crest – and plenty of folks across the Menagerie Coast didn’t either – but things still seemed to wind down a little all across Nicrodranas. At least from what Jester could see from her window.

In that last week or so, as the crowds grew thinner, Blud wasn’t as vital for door duty. He’d leave someone else in charge, and get “lost” until she’d help him back to his post; or he’d come to teach her new games and tricks for her to share with all her family here. She’d teach him a few tricks back, of course – it’s all about a balance!

Best of all though, was the longest night. Winter’s Crest itself. Save for the odd year with a bitter client, Mama would give a song or two to a quiet room of folks all melancholy with wine. And then the evening was _theirs_! They’d play with paints and perfumes, badly re-enact all the latest plays clients rambled about, and just talk and talk and be themselves until dawn smeared the sky. Time was worth more than gold, Jester always knew. And a whole evening with Mama was worth more than anything.

(Save, perhaps, for when the Traveller taught her something really cool. Close second though. At least a close second.)

* * *

* * *

**Eins**

The Mighty Nein never had a first Winter’s Crest. 

Not so surprising, when you consider how many of its members come from the Dwendallian Empire. Even less so when you consider that the Blooming Grove didn’t even _have_ a winter, much less a Winter’s Crest. 

The real kicker, though, was the Happy Fun Ball of Tricks.

* * *

The _Ball-Eater_ creaked and groaned, in ways that were beginning to almost feel familiar to Jester Lavorre. Back before Lord Sharpe, she’d thought “getting your sea legs” might have been some kind of euphemism – but she’d found her footing here. Literally ~~if not metaphorically~~. Off to break some seal on a big snake thingy? Sure, she was cool with that. Of course she was.

Helping to tug on bits of rigging kept her occupied, at least. Kept her mind off. . .certain recent events. Her friends were all here, now, after all. Together they could all help Fjord do what he had to do and then go home. Hopefully.

Lost in thought, despite her best efforts, she almost tripped over Caleb. Pressed to the side of the ship, his coat almost made him blend in. At least, that’s the best excuse she had.

“Heey Cayleb,” she called into his ear, “you hurlin’”

“-n, twenty first Duscar – I mean, nein. Nein, I am not throwing up.”

“That’s good.”

“Ja.”

Caleb seemed as lost in thoughts as she was. Unlike her, he didn’t have the muscle to help with the rigging and take his mind off things. He could be helping Caduceus in the kitchen, Jester supposed, but Caleb probably didn’t want to annoy him or burn anything. She stifled a laugh at Caleb cooking via firebolt.

“Hmm?”

“Oh, _nothing_ Cayleb.”

“Ja. Okay.”

His eyes flicked away from her once more.

“What’cha doin’, anyway?”

“Ah, well,” he mumbled, “it’s a little embarrassing.”

He had to have know that’d only grab her interest, right? He wasn’t as good with social thingies as she was, but he _must_ know that he’d offered her something tempting. Surely.

“Reeaaally?”

“Ah.”

Huh. Maybe not.

“Well,” he said, words all staccato fumbling, “I am good with time, as you know. But the, uh, the ball. The ball was. . .not good.”

“What, no!” She said, cheerful armour locking into place, “What was wrong with that?”

His eyes searched her face and posture at that.

“…aside from anything else,” he eventually continued, “I still keep thinking it is the fourteenth of Duscar, not the twenty first.”

“Well, yeah, I guess if you know the time, it’d suck to get the time mixed up – wait a minute! We missed Winter Crest?!”

“Ja.”

They stayed there, for a minute or three, staring out across the grey expanse of water. Soon enough though, both began to feel that familiar awkwardness settling in. Jester nibbled her lip, Caleb tugged at his bandages.

“…do you know what Winter’s Crest is, Cayleb? I mean, they don’t exactly celebrate it in the Empire, but it’s the day of th-“

“-I know it, I know it,” he interrupted, hands fluttering, “I’m sorry I, we, didn’t get you back to your mother before you could spend time together.”

“No, no. It’s fine, Cayleb. It’s fine.”

She wasn’t. He might even know she wasn’t. Caleb was pretty smart, after all. He smiled, sadly, and offered her some honeycomb from his component pouch. She laughed him off, talking about the bat poo that could have touched it. Still chuckling, they awkwardly walked away from each other – if they’d seen each other’s faces in those moments, they’d have both spun back around and gone in for a tight hug. 

* * *

* * *

**Zwei**

The Mighty Nein _did_ have a second Winter’s Crest. Kinda. Being on a mission from Essek at the time, celebrations were. . .interesting.

* * *

“Wakey wakey, Caleb!” came Nott’s scratchy yell. 

“It’s Winter’s Crest,” came a tired voice in response, Zemnian accent all-the-thicker with sleep, “I deserve a lie-in”

Nott huffed at this. She’d not slept well yet again – the underdark played havoc with her circadian rhythm (if goblins even had those – she’d not really thought to ask the tribe in-between helping with the brutalising, worrying about her husband and son, mourning her own death, etc etc) – and she’d been up hours. Between where the tiny hut had been hidden – real genius, her Caleb was – and the general lifelessness of this cave, she’d not seen anything while keeping watch. Nothing!

“Yeah, well, I don’t they celebrate Winter’s Crest down here!” she grumbled as another minute passed like an hour.

“Yeah,” Beau chimed in – more a grunt of exertion in her morning push-ups than an actual word.

“Oh my gosh, guys!”

Jester often woke up in the snap of two fingers. Beau and Caleb had both speculated, half-seriously, she faked the last ten minutes of sleep just to surprise them – another clever little act of worship for The Traveller. On the other hand, it might just be a dietary thing. Either’s possible.

“Why didn’t anyone tell me it was so close to Winter’s Crest?! I’ve not got everyone their presents!”

“What’s a “Winter’s Crest”?” Came Caduceus’ sleepy voice.

“You’re kidding, right?” Fjord said, accent far more Tal’dori than it had been a year ago, “you’re all about nature and stuff. Shortest day of the year isn’t something worth celebrating?”

As Caleb dissolved the hut, the Mighty Nein dissolved into argument. None of them would have it any other way. (They could have done without the drider ambush they argued their way into later, but c’est la vie, you know?)

Somewhere in the midst of arguing, fighting and then arguing again, Caleb passed Jester a diamond wrapped in prank ideas.

_This one’s a keeper._ She swore she heard The Traveller distantly say. Fighting down a purple blush, she passed him back a spell scroll she’d looted a few days back – now improved with a few illustrations, curtesy of the one and only Jester Lavorre.

* * *

* * *

**Drei**

No one had expected the Mighty Nein to last for more than a few weeks. Somehow, they’d been together for nigh-on three-and-a-half years now! It was a good thing too – against all possible sense, the fate of the world, perhaps reality itself, rested on the shoulders of a bunch of self-confessed arseholes and idiots. Funny how things can work out, isn’t it?

Still, if they were lucky, Tharizduun wouldn’t eat the sun, and there’d still be a Winter’s Crest to celebrate this time next year!

* * *

“Couldn’t you have spoilt another holiday?” the blue-skinned tiefling yelled, a wall of ice erupting from her arm in response to a cultist’s mace, “I had _plans_ for today!”

“The boundaries between planes grew thinnest on the solstices, and so our mighty angel sha-“

-his ranting stopped, as the water in his eyeballs froze solid. (It took another swing of her lollypop to stop the screaming.) Falling backwards into the impossible geometry he’d helped to build, his mind, body and soul became just another brick in the (metaphorical) wall. It really did suck to worship Tharizdun.

“The chained oblivion will bring all together,” a fifty-eyed creature spoke, descending the impossible structure with unexpected grace (well, more expected if you remembered about seven or eight of her constituent bodies were once elves, but still surprising when you consider she’s a bubbling monstrosity of corpseflesh).

“The Chained Oblivion’s gonna kill everything, you know?” Beauregard said almost casually, as she tore a few faces off the ghoulish puppet.

“What could be more harmonious, more blissful, than shared nonexistence?”

“Well,” a purple-clad mage replied, “you’re looking at nein of them here.”

“But there’s only sev-“

_Widogast’s Web of Fire_ did its job remarkably well – reducing yet another of Tharizdun’s devotees into a pile of burnt bones. Caleb was a lot better at processing such sights, these days, but it was still a relief when the bones transformed into a mass of screaming maggots. Well, until those maggots activated the anti-Trammel.

The “divine lockpick”, as Jester had lovingly nicknamed it, thrummed with power – painful vibrations of which rattled through everyone’s bones. A century’s worth of congealed blood sprouted eyes and began to oozingly climb the impossible structure, rusting the metal everywhere it touched. Struts shifted, warped and grew – until the impossible dome was more of an impossible cannon aimed straight at the setting sun. Black ooze bubbled forth from the metal itself, dripping onto the ground with enough force to leave tiny impact craters.

All in all, they’d had better Winter’s Crests!

Before anyone could think, they’d all rushed into battle once more. Yasha screamed in fury, cleaving torso-thick metal struts in two with every swing of her greatsword. Lightning from Beau’s fists arced and spat through every last piece of this _thing’s_ metal skeleton. As Caduceus prayed, new life began to sprout from the fetid decay that filled this. . .thing – new life rather hostile to that which spawned it! Fjord’s icy swings froze the writhing ooze solid enough for Nott to use as footholds, as she clambered into new ways to sneak attack a god (or at least some aspect of such). 

They’d made headway, but probably not enough.

Up high, at the barrel of the gun, Jester and Caleb fought side-by-side. A swarm of chitin-covered birds had harassed them the whole flight/fight up, and were still swooping as they attacked the gun barrel itself. Fortunately, Jester’s hamster-sized unicorns were more than a match for them – especially after they’d circled together close enough for a handy fireball!

They fought together in a harmony they couldn’t have imagined three years ago. Ice and fire, arcane and divine, worked together flawlessly – her shield deflecting a spear-like tooth aimed for him, his gift of wispy fate exactly what she’d needed to force open some beartrap-like contraption that’d nearly swallowed them.

(As a side note, they both know you don’t _have_ to kiss in order to cast guidance. Thing is, are you going to stop them?)

As the sunset engulfed the sky in pinks and purples, everyone here – perhaps even everyone in Exandria – knew it’d come down to these last six seconds.

Everyone had already unleashed everything they had. The impossible edifice that was to be Tharizdun’s partial release was cracked, crumbling, reasonably possible to comprehend without driving the viewer to madness.

But impossible energy was still building. Caleb Widogast and Jester Lavorre still stood at the lip of the gun’s barrel. The structure was going to collapse soon, for certain, but they fall with it? Would their sun fall with it?

As the day turned to night, they clasped their hands together. Energy exploded. They celebrated Winter’s Crest with one final kiss.

* * *

* * *

**Neun**

“-and _that_ ,” Jester explained to the gaggle of open-mouthed children, “was when we decided to get married!”

“Liebling,” Caleb said, emerging from the kitchen “I think you were a little too descriptive in a few points.”

“Nonsense, Cayleeb,” she shot back, lilting his name until the children laughed, “everyone this age loves a bit of dramatics in their stories!”

“Ja?”

“Ja.”

“Maybe so.”

“Oh, you _know_ I’m always right.”

Caleb chuckled at that, and offered around a plate of fresh bear claws. Even though almost all the kids had adored Jester’s story, they still looked away in mock-disgust when Caleb kissed the cinnamon off his wife’s lips.

Little things like that are gifts any day of the year, but they’re still the best presents anyone can get for Winter’s Crest. Jester and Caleb Lavorre both know that well.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the longest story I've written in quite a while, and some of it was written in a bit of a hurry, so do tell me if I've made any stupid mistakes anywhere!


End file.
